Bridge of Sighs

strength, often mistaken for

slashing down the underneath cold Eskimo Moons,

fully outfitted with legs apart,

flashing bad yellow eyes 

at dark-howling-anyhow moronic wind

that keeps these vacant shafts running full blast, 

still mining forsaken crumbs of love

scattered by we dumpsters

who inevitably confess to

their stubborn abstract loneliness.

over there on B Hill

I can feel it when you breathe,

even through my broken boots and second-hand clothes

even through your flesh of lies,

as I go pissing off the Bridge of Sighs.

I do not think I was dressed for this thing, my love,

this punkass struggle to unearth my feminine,

the while

dreaming of your hands folded inside shades of sleep,

rain washing your victories

further ingredients for this Poetry 

from last year’s kid.

safe now underground, 

my body trembles for a shave,

the Well,

the remains the Reservoir we drink from,

our hands, cupped.

while underneath our bed,

Bridge of Sighs visions grow dim

cold water slapping upside my neck,

miracles as bookmarkers 

reminding me of times drowned out by words

nothing left to face these strange smacked feelings

buried deep,

lost.

with astrology sandcastles castrating Neapolitan boardwalks,

Ocean of Winter erupts into a calling nearness,

Siren luring sailors

with plans to get clear,

escape from this smothering harbor 

catch a ride to freedom from interpretations.

and fingernails chipped, broken from many pawnshop visitations

from soul singers beckoning

piled up in horizontal Motown heaps.

oh taken for granted virgin,

you began the cycle inspecting yourself,

with pride and profundity,

with your green eyes

blinded,

resistant,

limping across the Bridge of Sighs.

in green canal Italy I dreamt your oval face,

perfect cameo

veiled in climax and smoke,

and that mystery of endless nights 

rebounded into symphonies,

we could have flown to the sun 

without Icarus's waxed wings, 

without purpose

without conviction

yet now

dropped here at this fork in time,

one path remains, 

the path transgressing the mindless sea,

firmament soft as your hands into mine

interlaced up then down the Bridge of Sighs.

southern desert scrub oaks scanter this season.

eagles are mating with vultures.

pyres readied for we first-born sons.

I am startled from this dust and mercy,

          these brown uniforms

          diseased peacocks

          the obtuse banner of lonely nights

          men’s assholes, tunnels from which nothing of worth escapes.

we cannot live with all this simplicity we Children of the City.

all we have ever known of truth were the hours passed 

inside ivied parks and libraries.

we have changed our names so often

to protect the bits of romance left inside.

these frontiers remain our prisons

into shadow,

into freedom,

straight into the blade that waits to fall passively upon our heads,

tongues that want too much

graves where monsoon winds 

decimate our rusty houses of wood and sex,

so very long we were August strong!

once, not so long ago, we were the spies

escaping into Canada 

across the Bridge of Sighs.

so no, I cannot betray the Butcher who considers me with her blade.

I cannot betray the Blessings pulverizing me with candor and trust.

I cannot betray the Lamb who considers me with her innocence.

I cannot betray the Bedouin who embraces me with his language.

I cannot betray the Blood that braves inside me with vengeance.

I cannot betray the Music evoking rhythm, harmony and silence. 

I cannot betray the Woman whose nakedness temps embedded in blindness.

I cannot betray the Women who offer bread and empathic eyes.

so no, I will not betray this Freedom Ghost now tapping my shoulder.

I can only betray Myself,

and betray this, my Song that I hum,

soaring,

jumping off this Bridge of Sighs.

Bisbee, 1978